


Between You and Me

by gingerpunches



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Afterlife, Badass Connor, Established Relationship, From Beyond the Grave, Funerals, Ghosts, M/M, Police Procedural, depressed Connor, im not kidding about the major character death, paranormal stuff, two years after peaceful revolution
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-25
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-17 12:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16095650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerpunches/pseuds/gingerpunches
Summary: (ON HIATUS)A chase. A bullet. The end.(It was only a matter of time before his number got drawn.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is based loosely on the movie The Others, and when i say loosely, i mean loosely. the concept is pretty much all i took - everything else is of my own creation.
> 
> im sorry! i wanted to try something different, so i hope this is good! let me know what you think!

“You in position?”

_ “Probably not a wise choice of words, Lieutenant.” _

Gavin groans next to Hank. Hank blushes, heat tickling under the collar of his light jacket. Hank grumbles despite it, ignoring the snicker of laughter from surrounding officers in his ear at Connor’s comment.

“Just fuckin’ tell me if you see him,” Hank grouses. “This is a sting, Connor, not a ten dollar phone session.”

_ “Only ten dollars?” _ Chris says over the radio. Hank can hear his smug smile.  _ “Pretty sure Connor is worth more than that.” _

_ “All of you, shut the hell up,”  _ Fowler snaps.  _ “Our mark is closing in and I need you focused. Enough with the break room chatter.” _

Hank sighs, silently relieved their Captain steps in. It was enough having so many people around already - having them tease him about Connor is too much even on good days.

Which isn’t to say it was necessarily bad. The precinct - and by extension, the public - was pretty accepting of Connor and androids right now. Two years after the revolution, and it was almost like there hadn’t been a question as to whether androids were sapient or not at all. Just… open-armed acceptance, like there was now. Androids roaming the streets, attending to their own chores and hobbies and jobs like everyone else, some with LEDs still (like Connor) and others as invisible as the humans standing next to them. Cyberlife fell under Kamski’s control again, and while android reproduction rights were still in the works, replacement parts weren’t hard to come by anymore, especially with better 3D printers coming out. 

Small mercies, given Connor’s line of work. Dodging bullets and hunting down criminals came with its own set of casualties - mostly Connor’s chassis plates. Hank’s just glad he learned how to perform rudimentary maintenance at home so they didn’t have to spend more time at the precinct for repairs.

But it was good, now. Connor was free to do what he wanted, and androids around the United States were granted rights on the same level as humans. There couldn’t have been a better outcome, really, and Markus was largely to thank for that.

(And Connor with his army of freshly-awoken androids. But they don’t talk about that anymore.)

Radio chatter falls silent and Hank shifts uneasily from foot to foot. Their suspect is armed, but they don’t know with what, and the only way they could nail him was in a crowd of  college students milling about across a mezzanine on campus. Most were in a hurry to get to class or to go home, but all of them didn’t spare any second glances to Hank and Gavin loitering around the corner of the performing arts building, partially hidden by the great brick columns supporting its stone awning. The sun was out, peeking through some darkening clouds, promising rain later in the day. Connor was hidden several hundred yards away, behind another building, ready to spring and chase their target should he miss their arresting officers across the square.

It was a messy plan put together last minute when they found their mark crossing campus. He was a student here, but he was also a confirmed killer of three human women and two female androids, all of them found with their throats cut in his bathroom and left to bleed out. The androids had suffered longer before shutting down, but all of them had been sexually assaulted before being slaughtered in cold blood.

So he was dangerous. Eric Watkins was his name, and Hank couldn’t hate him any more than he did now.

But he waits. Eric is tall, with a distinguishable tattoo on his neck of a panther’s head curling above his shirt collar. Dark hair, light skin, blue eyes. He’s skinny and walks confidently - he isn’t hard to miss.

Gavin shifts uneasily next to him, itching to find this guy and get this two week long case closed so they can all go home on time for once. He presses a finger to his radio, activating it, and speaks lowly into it to not draw attention from passing students.

“Anything on your side, Connor?” he asks quietly.

A beat passes.  _ “Possibly. Hold for one moment while I attempt to get closer for a facial scan.” _

_ “Be cautious,”  _ Fowler warns. 

Hank holds his breath as seconds pass in silence. Connor is an effective detective, quick-witted and skilled beyond what he was designed for. There’s no need to worry about him. No need to lose his nerve even if their suspect was a cold-blooded -

_ “Suspect is running! He spotted my LED - I repeat, suspect is moving and armed! I am in pursuit!” _

Connor’s voice is relatively calm compared to the panic that flares up inside Hank. He tenses, muscles coiling and hand instinctively falling to the grip of his gun resting at his hip. He knows he can’t blow his cover now - Connor had been instructed to chase Eric in this direction if he got spooked - but he wants nothing more than to move. The urge to protect Connor is nearly too strong to overcome, but Gavin’s presence behind him keeps him locked in place, peering around the pillar they’re hidden behind in a desperate attempt at spotting Eric and Connor running through the crowd.

“Just wait,” Gavin says. “He knows to chase him here. Just wait.”

Hank frowns. He feels no less tense, no less nervous about waiting here to strike. But he does it anyway against all other instincts screaming inside him to move. 

_ “Is the suspect armed?”  _ Fowler asks through the radio.

_ “Armed with a handgun, police issue glock, sixteen rounds. Stolen from one of the victim’s homes. Closing in on Lieutenant Anderson and Detective Reed’s positions.”  _ Connor doesn’t even sound winded when he responds. Of course he wouldn’t - he’s not speaking, instead directly communicating through comms in his CPU. 

Gavin tenses and Hank readies to jump out. He can see people starting to move now, turning their heads and jumping out of the way of two people running through them. Eric comes into view first, shoving out of the crowd and nearly stumbling with the speed he’s running at. Connor bursts out after him, easily avoiding colliding with anyone and moving like an angry machine after Eric as he sprints towards Hank’s position. Connor has herded him well, and just when Hank is about to jump out and snag Eric as he passes, their suspect whips around and opens fire on Connor.

Hank shouts, students scream, chatter erupts over the radio, and Connor grunts as two bullets graze his shoulder and arm while a third punches through his stomach. Blue blood splatters the white pavement - pieces of Connor’s chassis chip and splinter away, scattering across the walkway like especially expensive pieces of trash. The bullets don’t even slow him down, and he leaps at Eric with rage in his eyes as Hank reaches out to slap the gun out of Eric’s hand when he turns around to dodge the android coming after him.

Another gunshot. Pain, hot and wet and  _ burning  _ through his chest. The gun skitters away - Connor shouts something Hank doesn’t hear. Connor and Eric go down, struggling as the radio in Hank’s ear becomes deafening with chatter and he collapses back against the pillar with a hand pressed to something wet and warm against his ribs as everything around him goes silent.

After a moment, sound comes rushing back into his deaf ears. People are shouting for an ambulance, gathering around Connor and Gavin struggling to get Eric in cuffs so he can’t escape. Fowler is shouting in Hank’s ear, trying to get his attention, but all Hank can manage is a low grunt and something like Connor’s name as the android finishes cuffing Eric. His body feels suddenly light, like he isn’t inhabiting it anymore, and it isn’t until Connor is scrambling to his side and pressing his cool palms all across Hank’s face that sensation returns to him in stuttering, painful waves.

He looks down. Peels his hand away from where it was pressed against his ribs. His palm comes away bright red, slick with blood, and when he looks further down, his shirt is already beginning to soak all the way through to his jacket.

“Oh, fuck,” he says.

“Just stay calm,” Connor says, albeit with a note of anxiety to his voice. He can’t seem to find a place to rest his hands, fingers fluttering over Hank’s hair and jaw and shoulders. He takes Hank’s other hand, searching for a pulse in the soft skin of his wrist even though he can determine a heartbeat with a simple scan. Hank doesn’t push him away, instead drawing the android closer with his bloodied hand in Connor’s jacket lapel.

“Connor,” Hank croaks. God, now it fucking  _ hurts.  _ He can feel the strength leaking out of him, too fast and too hot. He coughs and catches blood on the back of his wrist - fuck, the bullet nicked his lung. “Connor, it’s alright.”

Connor makes a strangled noise in his throat. He yanks off his jacket and balls it up before pressing it against Hank’s wound. Molten, painful heat blooms from the bullet hole, and it takes all of Hank’s strength not to sock Connor in the jaw with how much it fucking hurts now that there’s unyeilding pressure against his wound.

“An ambulance is coming,” Connor says shakily. His other hand finally rests against Hank’s cheek, his skin cool and warm. His frantic brown eyes meet Hank’s, full of fear and questions, and it takes only a moment for Hank to understand that he won’t ever get a chance to answer them.

Because his limbs feel too weak already, full of lead and growing cold from blood loss. Logically, he knows it doesn’t take that long to bleed out. Especially if the bullet hit an artery or his heart. He can’t self diagnose like Connor can, but judging from the way Connor’s eyes keep roaming his chest, he can guess it’s probably worse than it looks.

And he’s okay with that. Sorta. So he reaches up, covers Connor’s hand with his bloodsoaked own, and in a matter of seconds feels his entire body relax without his permission. Connor shouts, frantic again, and even behind closed lids Hank knows his LED is going crazy. Such a stupid thing - but it got him here. Hank doesn’t begrudge Connor at all for keeping it.

And then it’s just noise. A gurney being rolled across pavement. EMTs speaking above him as he’s transported in an ambulance. Spots of clarity, Connor’s hands across his body and his voice ringing in his ear like a soft lullaby hours and hours later. He doesn’t know how he knows that - maybe because the clatter of bodies and tools and machines around him has stopped, and it’s only them, alone in a room somewhere. He wants to reach out, wants to take Connor in his arms and tell him everything will be okay one way or the other.

But he can’t. His limbs are too heavy, filled with static and numbness. They're cold, just like the rest of him, but there are points of warmth. Places that shouldn’t be warm but are because someone is there making him warm.

Connor. It’s Connor.

That’s the last thing he feels. And then nothing.

 

——

 

The alarm going off wakes him from one of the weirdest dreams he’s ever had.

He groans and rolls over, slapping his hand over his phone to shut the damn thing up. Mercilessly, it does, and he burrows deeper into the blankets, relishing in the comfort of them around him. There should be a body next to his, warm and pliant and ready to receive morning kisses, but distantly he dismisses it. Maybe Connor got up early. He sometimes does, during weekdays.

Ever since they got together, though, it became less routine. Connor enjoys sleeping, enjoys the safety that being close to Hank brings him even in bed. It’s enough of a change in routine to get Hank up out of bed and drag his sorry ass into the shower - when he emerges to make a pot of coffee, he’s surprised to find the damn thing isn’t on the counter anymore.

In fact, when he takes a more observant look around the kitchen, almost  _ nothing  _ that he had before clutters the counters and kitchen table. Sumo’s dog food and bowls still sit against the wall, and there’s dish soap and a sponge sitting on the metal lip of the sink. But the rest of the countertop is bare, and when he opens the cabinets and the kitchen, they’re empty of their contents as well.

Hank frowns. What the fuck? Did Connor get rid of  _ everything  _ while he was sleeping for some reason? 

“Connor!” he shouts. The android couldn’t have gone far - it wasn’t even nine in the morning. They still had time before they had to be in for work. When Hank doesn’t get an immediate answer, he slams the fridge door closed and spins around, anger at his partner for the first time in a long time flaring under his skin. The living room is dark, the curtains drawn closed and the television turned off. He stalks across the room and yanks the curtains open, flooding the room in warm morning sunlight, startling Sumo from his nap on the floor but not disturbing the figure of Connor asleep on the couch.

The anger drains out of him when Hank turns to look at him. He doesn’t remember the night before - doesn’t remember if he got drunk and angry, if they fought or if something else had happened. But seeing Connor here on the couch is a rare sight, and he doesn’t have the heart to wake him up if he really did do something wrong. 

So he kneels next to the couch and gently places his hand on the android’s back. He’s sleeping with his face mashed into a throw pillow, arms folded up under him and his long legs stretched out, feet dangling over the armrest as he sleeps in deep stasis on his stomach. His LED blinks red, and his hair is mussy like he’d been tossing and turning. A blanket is tangled between his legs, and when Hank straightens it out and throws it over him so he’s properly covered, the android seems to relax in stasis. Hank presses a kiss to his LED and mutters an apology against the soft skin of his temple.

He doesn’t know what he’s done. Doesn’t know if this is him or if something huge happened and he just doesn’t remember. But he lets it slide, confident Connor will tell him when he wakes. So he busies himself with getting dressed, picking out something nicer than normal to hopefully brighten Connor’s mood. He doesn’t get very far in his morning routine when Sumo barks to be let out, with the familiar shuffle of Connor’s feet across the hardwood floors following shortly after.

“Hey, Connor,” Hank calls from the bedroom. He finishes lacing his shoes and follows the sounds of Connor filling Sumo’s bowls, reaching out to slip a hand around the android’s hip and give him a kiss. But he doesn’t respond - verbally or physically - and seems to slip between Hank’s fingers like oil over water. 

Hank blinks. Connor moves around him, stepping away like he didn’t even exist and moving back into their bedroom. Hank follows him, that same anger pricking up under his skin again. Was he being ignored? What the fuck happened last night? 

“Connor,” Hank says again. Connor continues to ignore him, dressing efficiently in a plain grey button up, black jeans, and his favourite grey blazer. Hank watches him from the doorway, glaring, his stomach tying itself into knots.

Sumo barks to be let in. Hank moves out of the way for Connor to slip between him and the door jam, letting their dog inside. Even Sumo doesn’t spare Hank a glance, ambling over to his food bowl after he’s been satisfied with a few ear scritches from Connor. That, for some reason, is the last straw, and before Hank can think about what he’s about to do, he lashes out to snag Connor’s arm as the android walks by and nearly loses whatever is in his stomach as his hand just…  _ phases  _ through Connor’s body.

“What the fuck,” he chokes out. Connor is moving like he can’t even see him, sitting on the couch putting on his socks and shoes. Sumo walks over for some pets, then collapses back into his dog bed. Connor gets up and closes the curtains Hank had opened, then says goodbye to Sumo and walks out the door, locking it behind him. 

“What the  _ fuck,”  _ Hank says again. He follows Connor, locking the door behind himself by turning it before closing the door. Connor is already in the cruiser when he gets outside, and before Hank can yank open the passenger door and give his partner a piece of his mind, Connor is backing up and driving down the street like Hank wasn’t already pissed six ways from Sunday.

“What the fuck!” Hank shouts into the morning. Detroit is already awake, the sound of distant traffic filling the crisp spring air and the morning frost on the front lawn beginning to melt. The world is moving on without him - and it pisses him the fuck off.

He doesn’t know what he’s done. Connor was either extremely pissed or extremely sad, and Hank doesn’t know which is worse. But his hand also  _ went through _ Connor, so this is obviously a lot more than what it looks like. Maybe an incredibly lucid dream, or maybe he’s daydreaming, or -

A kid across the street catches his attention. He’s maybe ten or eleven, tall and scrawny, a mess of blond curls on top of his head, wearing shorts, a tee shirt, and barefooted despite the cold of the morning wind biting Hank’s skin. He looks oddly familiar, and Hank’s gut twists further as the kid crosses the street without checking for cars. He stops at the edge of Hank’s lawn, his little toes digging into the crisp grass. He looks  _ really  _ familiar now that he’s closer, and something inside Hank dreads whatever this kid is about to say or do.

“Hi, dad,” the kid says. Hank’s stomach drops through the soles of his boots, and in that moment everything makes sense. 

He swallows the lump in his throat. The kid reaches out, one slim palm held out for him to take. There’s a freckle on top of his thumb, a familiar blemish on his hand that Hank could never forget.

Hank slowly reaches out and takes his hand. “Hi, Cole,” he croaks out, and everything makes dreadful, painful sense.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Death, for a while, didn’t bother him.

He knew he would die. It came with existence - everything here on this earth would die one day. From the smallest living microbe to the biggest whale in the sea, they would all die. Hank knew that, and knew that sometimes, death came knocking a bit sooner than she should have.

He dealt in death. Watched and recorded and investigated bodies rotting on the floor, heads caved in from blunt force trauma or sitting in a pool of blood from gunshot wounds. He’s dug up bodies from unmarked graves in forests and fields and people’s backyards. He’s watched as EMS pulled limp, still-warm bodies from car wrecks and burnt out houses.

He watched Cole die. Watched him roll into that operating room, hurt but alive, and never come back out breathing. He watched a part of himself die that day, a part of himself he would never get back. A hole in his existence, a blank spot stricken from his life where a little six year old boy should have been. 

And then there were androids.

He’s seen them die, too. Seen them peacefully shut down into nothingness, and scream and scream until there was nothing left but a husk of their core programming. Traumatized beyond being recognizable - now just an animal waiting to be put down to be spared the pain of living. He’s seen Connor die, too, though in looser terms, and every time he came back (twice - only twice, he has to remind himself, even if they were post-deviancy) Hank felt that same little part of himself die. 

Never again, he promised himself. If he had to someday leave this world, he would do it without regretting the shell of a man he had become after Cole’s death.

But now?

“I’m dead,” he says flatly.

Cole is kicking a ball around the front yard, uncaring, apparently, of his bare toes hitting the hard rubber. Hank doesn’t know where he produced it from, or if people can see him doing it. They  _ seem  _ unaware - a woman walks by with her dog on a lead, and she doesn’t even flinch when Cole gives an especially hard kick, sending his ball bouncing across the grass and nearly hitting Hank’s Oldsmobile parked at the head of the driveway. The dog, however, is semi-interested, and only moves on because her owner tugs her along.

“Yeah, dad,” Cole says. He smiles like it was a stupid question and retrieves his ball. “Haven’t you ever watched ghost movies?”

“I didn’t think I’d  _ be _ one,” Hank snaps. “Or find you. Or that there was an…  _ afterlife _ at all. What the hell is this, Cole?”

Cole shrugs one slim shoulder. It’s almost Uncanny Valley, how Cole looks so much like he did when he was six. If this really is him. The same dusty blond hair, the little freckle on his thumb, his lanky limbs and those deep grey eyes - it looks like him. If this is a demon, Satan got him down pretty damn close.

Cole smiles at him, amused and older than he looks. He sits in front of Hank, cross-legged, unbothered by the cold concrete under him as Hank sits stiffly in front of him on the stoop. 

“It’s like we just… moved sideways,” Cole says. His expression is suddenly serious, his tone thoughtful. “I don’t really get it, either. No one was here to tell me all this when I died.”

Hank swallows a thickness in his throat. He can see how it happened - six year old Cole, alone and scared in that hospital, unsure what just happened and why no one can see him. He wonders how many times Cole tried to get his attention but he couldn’t, wonders how long Cole cried because Hank wasn’t there to protect him anymore. 

Tears burn behind his eyes and he scrubs them away. When he looks back at his son, his face is softer, understanding.

“I woke up like you did, a couple weeks later,” Cole says softly. “I missed my funeral. And the hospital. It was easier, I guess.”

Hank lets out a hard breath. “And me? How much did I miss?”

Cole grimaces. “Not a lot. You died last week - your body is just now getting prepared to be buried. Connor had to fight to get your will released to him, since no one you left it to is still alive or allowed to see it.”

“You know about Connor?” Hank asks. If Cole knew, then he knew about their relationship. How would he react —

“It’s okay”, Cole says, amused. He laughs a little, a high sound that’s familiar and unfamiliar all at once. “I like him. He’s good for you, dad.” He falters. “ _ Was _ good for you.”

The weight of everything sinks in on him all at once. Connor.  _ Connor.  _ He was truly alone, now, his one strong connection to the human world snuffed out by a stray bullet. He had Chris and Naomi - and Ben, sorta - but Hank was the one he spent most of his time with. Carl had passed the year before, and Markus was still busy finalizing android laws with President Warren…

He was alone, now. Sumo was getting up in years now, too. And having Hank pass so traumatically -

“I have to talk to him,” Hank says quietly.

Cole grimaces. “You can’t. I mean, I haven’t found a way, at least. Not directly.”

Hank gets up and dusts his jeans off even though it’s probably pointless. “I opened the curtains this morning - there has to be a way to talk to him.”

Cole follows him inside the house, holding his ball against his chest and a frown on his face. Sumo perks up as the door opens and closes, his tail thumping against the floor. When Cole rounds the end of the couch to get a better look at him, he scrambles out of bed and practically bowls Cole over in his excitement.

Hank stops in his tracks as Cole giggles and drops his ball to card his fingers through Sumo’s hair. The sight is so heart-achingly familiar that Hank has to take a moment to catch his breath (not that it matters anymore.) Sumo had been a puppy when Cole was born, a little ball of brown and white fur that never left Cole’s side even in bed. They’d been brothers right up until Cole died, and to see them together again -

“I never wanted to make life harder by seeing him,” Cole says quietly, sensing Hank’s distress even from across the room and facing away. Sumo wiggles and falls to the floor, rolling over for belly rubs. “We can manipulate the world a little, change things and touch things if it’s insignificant enough… but I missed seeing you and Sumo.”

Hank sinks to his knees next to Cole and skates his palm down the soft fur of Sumo’s back. Sumo pants, smiling, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth in bliss. Tears spring to Hank’s eyes again, and fighting the urge to cry is almost painful.

“How?” Hank asks. “How can we do this? How could I touch Connor earlier and open the door?”

Cole shrugs. “I don’t know. It just… we just  _ can.  _ Not all the time, not when people are looking or when they’re awake, but we can. Animals don’t care so much.”

Hank sucks in a shaky breath. He wraps an arm around Cole’s shoulders, the tears falling freely when Cole reciprocates, folding himself against Hank’s chest, his thin arms tight around his sides. Hank buries his nose in Cole’s hair, inhaling the scent of him - and he smells just like he did the day he died.

Dirt and grass and rain, green stains on his knees and palms from skidding around in the field earlier that day playing soccer in one of the enclosed soccer fields in Detroit. Only six years old and he had already been so active and alive, a scrawny kid with so much wonder and excitement in his eyes that Hank had a hard time believing he was his kid. A little ball of sunshine Cole had been, and when that had been taken away -

“I missed you so much, Cole,” Hank croaks. He faintly feels his tears wetting Cole’s hair, but his son doesn’t seem to care. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t paying attention. If I’d seen that truck just a moment sooner…”

Cole shakes his head, burying his nose into Hank’s shirt. Hank can feel wetness there, too, the fabric tacky with Cole’s own tears. Hank hugs him tighter, memorizing the feeling of his son in his arms again, the feeling of his hair against his cheek and his heartbeat fluttering against his ribs. He hasn’t hugged his son in six years, and never thought he would be able to ever again. This was as close to heaven as he’d ever been, now.

He doesn’t know how long they stay like that curled up on the floor, holding each other and remembering what it was like to be whole. Sumo falls asleep after a while, and much too early to even be lunch time, the door clicks open and closed almost imperceptibly. Connor’s oxfords being kicked off startles Hank and Cole apart, and gets Sumo off the floor and ambling over to the android in concern.

Hank shoots up to his feet the same time Connor thumps against the front door and slides down. Connor’s head tips forward, hair falling over his forehead and LED quickly shifting to an erratic red. When Hank sinks to his knees next to him and puts his hand on Connor’s knee, Connor doesn’t react.

“He can’t feel you,” Cole calls from across the room. His voice is still hoarse from crying - it hurts just as much as seeing Connor does. Hank nods to show he heard him and scoots closer, reaching up to touch Connor’s face.

He can feel his skin, the dryness of his cheek and the wet saline of his tears tracking silently down his face. Sumo makes room for Hank, curling against Connor’s other leg and putting his big head in Connor’s lap. He can feel the warmth from both of them, from Connor’s leg pressed against his and the hot breath ghosting over his knee as Sumo pants. Connor doesn’t seem to feel any of this - instead, his head tips away from Hank’s hand, his fingers curling into Sumo’s fur like a lifeline.

Connor came home to cry. Hank’s heart breaks at the thought - shatters into a billion pieces as Connor lets out a hiccup and doesn’t bother to hide his sobs as everything comes pouring out of him at once. Cole said Hank had been dead only a week, but if Connor was trying to work  _ and  _ mourn -

“I don’t know what to do, Hank,” Connor says through a shaky breath. Sumo whines; Hank gapes as Connor seems to lean into his hand cupping the android’s jaw. “I don’t know how to focus at work without you. Fowler is doing the best he can, but I —“

He cuts himself off with a sob. Sumo wiggles further into his lap, practically blanketing Connor with his bulk as he moves his head over Connor’s shoulder. Connor wraps his arms around him, pressing his face into his fur and crying into it. 

Hank is at a loss. A week wasn’t enough time to come to terms with  _ anyone’s  _ death. The fact that Connor tried to work and mourn at the same time spoke volumes of how fragile he really was.

It all made Hank want to hold him again. He wanted to smooth Connor’s pain away with a kiss, wanted to turn back time to a week before and tell himself that he should had just fucking waited. Waited to knock that gun out of the suspect’s hand, waited until he was properly on the ground to make his move. Connor wasn’t expendable, but he could take more punishment, and if Hank had just been patient, then none of this would of happened.

But he can’t hug Connor. He can’t kiss him, can’t take him into his arms and make this all go away. He could, but Connor wouldn’t feel it - and in the end, that was point.

So he sits next to Connor instead as he cries. Cole does too, looking down at his hands laying limp in his lap, the both of them listening to Connor work through his pain. Hank cries, too, but hides it behind the curtain of his hair, blocking the worst of his blotchy tears from Cole. 

He’s seen enough hurt and pain. He’s  _ suffered  _ through enough hurt and pain. It won’t all go away, but no one should have to watch their parents cry.

Connor’s phone buzzes in his pocket, startling all four of them. Sumo slumps to the floor as Connor digs in his pocket to answer whoever is calling him, scrubbing his face with his other sleeve and trying to compose himself despite being alone in the house. He takes a couple shaky breaths and then answers, face blank and LED blinking between yellow and red.

“Hello, this is Connor,” he says.

Being so close, Hank can hear Fowler’s voice on the other end. Not words, but his tone is soft and undemanding - Connor visibly deflates as Fowler continues to talk. All the tension bleeds out of him at once; the back of his head hits the door with a dull thunk.

“Thank you, Captain,” Connor says shakily. “I’ll be sure to let you know what the plans are when I return.”

He ends the call and drops the phone to the floor with a clatter. His hand drops with it, his body slumped against the door like he’s been shot. Hank touches his hand, his rough calluses a familiar tug against Connor’s unblemished skin. Connor, of course, feels none of it, and is off the floor putting on his shoes across the room almost as quickly as he had relaxed.

Hank and Cole get up out of his way as he puts on a cleaner jacket at the front door. Sumo whines, tail thumping against the floor - Connor pets his head and manages a tight smile. 

“I’ll be back,” he says. “Just have to go take —“ He falters. The facade nearly breaks - Hank’s heart breaks all over again. “ —take care of Hank.”

He leaves. Hank and Cole follow him out to the yard, then watch the cruiser disappear around the corner again.

“Can I follow him?” Hank asks. 

Cole nods. “Yeah. Can I come with you?”

Hank holds his hand out. His son takes it, a familiar warmth he’s missed for so, so long. Cole’s older - as old as he would be if he’d lived and aged normally - but his hand is the same slim shape it had been when he died. Long fingers like his mother’s, with a little mole on the top of his hand.

Hank squeezes his hand and smiles something small down at Cole. Cole grins back, looking eleven again, and Hank starts their walk towards where he knows Connor will go.

 

——

 

His will is simple. He wrote it to be, especially after getting together with Connor - he wanted no qualms over what would happen after he died. No one would mess with his shit again, but he didn’t expect it to be used so…  _ early. _

But he knew where Connor went, and somehow he and Cole arrive at the funeral home around the same time Connor does. Hank throws an odd look at Cole in askance who just shrugs.

“Time moves differently, sometimes,” Cole says. “I still don’t have all this figured out.”

The receptionist at the funeral home doesn’t seem surprised to see Connor. She smiles at him gently and locks her computer before coming around the back of her desk and leading him into the back of the building. Hank follows, Cole trailing behind, as they pass through a viewing gallery of empty caskets and a wall displaying various incredibly expensive urns. Hank hopes Connor didn’t pick something that would break his bank - he highly doubts his life insurance cashed in already.

Connor doesn’t pay any mind to anything around him. He follows the receptionist with a single-minded purpose, his steps even and LED a calm blue. Hank knows he’s not calm, knows Connor is just as tired and frustrated as he was back at the house but is deciding not to show it. It’s as close as he’s ever been to how he was before his deviancy, and that, more than anything, hurts Hank the most.

The receptionist leads them back to a small room lined with cubbies against the back wall. They each have a little plastic door and a keypad lock on them - the receptionist approaches one midway up from the floor and unlocks it,revealing a matte black box inside. She picks it up gently with both hands and holds it out to Connor, something in her expression tightening as Connor falters.

His fingers brush the edge of the box like he can’t quite believe it’s real. She’s patient with him, letting him take his time in taking it from her, her eyes gentle and understanding. Connor eventually takes it from her and hugs it tightly to his chest, unable to meet her eyes.

“Thank you,” Connor says quietly. “For taking care of him.”

“Of course,” the receptionist says gently. She reaches out and rubs a slim hand up his arm in comfort. “Do you want a moment alone before going over the funeral plans? There’s no rush.”

Connor presses his nose against the lid of the box, more to hide his face than anything. His LED flashes to yellow and then red, agitated and upset, and Hank wants nothing more than to hold him. He settles for rubbing a hand over Connor’s shoulder blades, even if the android won’t feel it.

After a long moment, Connor draws in a shaky breath and straightens. He battles his tears off well enough, but Hank can see the beginnings of them at the corners of his eyes, shiny saline threatening to fall. The receptionist politely looks away, and at Connor’s nod, leads him out of the room to a little seating area just outside that she leaves him at while she retrieves his funeral plans.

_ Hank’s  _ funeral plans. He never wanted one - didn’t think anyone would show up - but he didn’t specify in his will. That was up to Connor now, and if he wanted closure, then Hank will try not to haunt him for the rest of his functioning days. 

“I wasn’t awake for my funeral,” Cole says after a while. Connor is curled around Hank’s urn, his forehead pressed to the box and his arms wound tightly around it as he waits for the receptionist to return. He can’t feel it, but Hank wraps an arm around him, kissing his hair and his shoulder. He likes to think Connor relaxed a little from the touch, but he doesn’t let himself dwell on those implications.

Cole sits on the floor in front of them, tugging at the hem of his shorts. He looks thoughtful as he glances around the room, curiosity bright in his eyes. Eventually his eyes drop to Connor again, and then he frowns, mournful.

“Do androids die, dad?” Cole asks.

Hank nods. He’s worked countless cases now where the victims were androids - has seen their mangled, dismantled, tortured corpses too many times now to be bothered by finding one anymore. Even the sight of Connor bleeding didn’t turn his stomach anymore, and Connor almost died twice. 

But they do die. The light leaves their eyes and everything they ever were just… disappears forever. He wonders if Connor will show up here, when he finally dies, decades from now. Or centuries, maybe, if he keeps himself updated and in working order for that amount of time.

(He doesn’t want to think about that, living centuries without Connor. So he shoves the thought away, takes comfort in Connor’s warmth under his hands, and tries not to show his hand to Cole.)

“Yeah, buddy,” Hank says softly. The receptionist returns and Connor straightens, all his attention on her. Hank drops his arm from around him and turns his gaze to Cole. “I’ve seen a lot of androids die - I’ve watched Connor nearly die. But he has memory backups, and if he keeps his maintenance up, he won’t be along for a while.”

His heart aches at the thought. It was still mind boggling, that he was dead and gone, that all that he ever was is in this little urn on Connor’s lap. He can touch Connor, can feel the texture of his hair and clothes under his hands and the cool warmth of his skin on his own - but it’s not real. Whether Hank is a ghost or poltergeist or something much stranger, Hank doesn’t know, but being able to touch Connor and be touched in return hurts.

Cole reaches out and takes one of Hank’s limp hands from his lap. He soothes his fingers over Hank’s knuckles, and when Hank turns his hand to grip Cole’s properly, Cole’s returning squeeze is strong.

“He’ll show up here one day,” Cole says. “I never thought you would - and yeah, you got shot and died a little early. But I’m glad you’re here, dad. It’s … lonely, sometimes.”

Hank nods. He can’t bring himself to answer - the tears are too close to escaping, and his throat is tight with an unvoiced sob. He wants so  _ badly  _ to hold Connor, to tell him everything will be okay, even if just for a moment. That’s all he wants, now. That little slice of comfort he may never get again.

Connor and the receptionist finish finalizing Hank’s funeral plans - a simple affair with very little to do other than ordering a headstone to be put in the city’s cemetery for officers who died in the line of duty. Hank didn’t think he deserved that honor, but Fowler had apparently pushed it through, and Hank isn’t all that upset that he gets someplace fancy to rest instead of the local cemeteries.

Even Cole doesn’t seem bothered. Hank thought maybe he wanted them to be buried together, but when they exit the funeral home and begin their strange time-walk back home, Cole just shrugs at the questioning look Hank gives him.

“You’re my dad, but you’re also a cop,” he says simply. “I think it’s cool you get to be buried with a bunch of people who loved their job as much as you did.”

Hank snorts. “I loved it for a while,” he says. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be near my family.”

“It’s not so important when I’m right here,” Cole says with a laugh.

“It’s important to Connor. And to Jeffrey. But yeah, I guess if this is what they want, then I’m okay with it.”

And he really is, sorta. The headstone is just that, anyway, with his urn safely tucked away somewhere at home, close to Connor and Sumo. A part of himself will be buried away, but Connor wants to keep him close, and that… eases the ache, a little.

When they get home, Connor is getting ready for bed early. Hank’s urn sits on the kitchen counter, still in its black box, far away from the edge so that nothing will tip it over and send it crashing to the floor. Sumo perks up when Hank and Cole enter the house, tail thumping against the floor. Connor emerges from the bathroom right as Hank hurries to close the door without a sound, hair damp from the shower and an odd look on his face.

Sumo continues to pant and wag his tail, and eventually gets up to get some pets from Cole. He collapses on the floor next to Cole, rolling over for belly rubs, and while Cole complies, he’s looking up at Hank like a deer in headlights.

Because Connor is  _ staring  _ at them. He doesn’t know they’re there, but Sumo, to him, is acting strangely. Hank doesn’t dare move in case he gets Sumo’s attention, instead standing stock still against the back of the couch as Connor’s LED turns yellow.

“What are you doing, Sumo?” Connor asks quietly. Sumo scrambles to his feet and over to Connor, beckoned by his name alone. Connor pets him as Sumo shoves his wet nose into his hand, panting and smiling. Connor’s frown deepens as he stares at where Hank and Cole are.

He’s scanning. LED whirling, gaze far away and focused at the same time. Everything must be coming up clean despite his suspicions, because Connor eventually turns away and heads into the bedroom. He turns lights out as he goes, and leaves the bedroom door open so Sumo can come in and out.

He didn’t pick the couch this time. Hank reaches down and hugs Cole tightly, relishing the feeling of him in his arms, and then follows Connor quietly into their room. Connor is making himself comfortable, shifting this way and that on his side of the bed, arranging pillows next to him so they mimic a body. Hank’s heart squeezes at the sight, and when Connor finally settles and turns off the light, Hank crawls in next to him, careful and slow.

Connor’s LED cycles to the slow pulsing red of stasis before he can notice the bed dipping with Hank’s weight. Connor isn’t easily woken from stasis, but Hank takes his time anyway, carefully tugging away the pillows the android arranged against his body and replacing them with himself. He wraps his arms around Connor, hoping against hope that Connor will feel him in his sleep, holding his breath as he kisses Connor’s hair in a prayer. After several long moments, Connor responds, his arms tightening around Hank and his face pressing into Hank’s shirt.

Hank’s whole again. At least for a while. He can pretend that this is real, that he and Connor fell asleep this way, that they both had a long day at work and just needed the comfort of each other to last the night. Connor’s weight against him is his anchor, a place he wants to return to so desperately to feel and to touch and to hold for real. He wants to turn back time, fix his mistakes, and go on living with the man that may live forever.

But he can’t. He knows that. Feeling Connor here, breathing and whole and alive - he isn’t allowed this anymore, at least for real. He’s allowed the facsimile, allowed to touch and hold and kiss as long as he pleases. But Connor doesn’t feel him. Not really. Not how Hank feels him.

And then Connor relaxes. His limbs don’t phase through Hank like they did when Hank tried to take his hand, his body instead conforming to Hank’s points and curves as he’s hugged to his body. Just like always when they fell asleep together, he unconsciously pushes Hank to his back so he can lay on Hank’s chest, seeking a heartbeat underneath his ear.

“I miss you,” Connor says, and Hank’s breath punches out of him. Connor has  _ never  _ spoken in his sleep - he didn’t even know he  _ could.  _ So much of him shut down during stasis that the ability to sleep talk was just so far out of the equation that the mere possibility never crossed Hank’s mind.

But he’s still asleep, LED a gentle red and body pliant over Hank’s. Hank bundles him up closer, kissing his hair, inhaling the clean scent of his plain shampoo and soap from his shower earlier. 

“I miss you, too,” Hank croaks. He can’t stop the tears, now. Or the hurt in his voice as he speaks. There’s so much inside him now, filling him up and emptying him all at once. He wants to love and to hold, wants to grow old with Connor and really die on his own terms. He wants to watch Connor move up in the precinct, wants to see him grow into the wonderful, caring, intelligent person he wasn’t designed to be. He wants to find the time to ask Connor to marry him and watch him walk down the aisle and know that finally, in all this darkness the universe made him muddle through, there’s a light out there just for him. A light named Connor, a precious, priceless gem among rough stones, one that fit perfectly against his jagged, worn edges. 

He wants it all. Wants to know that someday Connor will meet him here - wherever “here” was. Wants to spend all eternity with him and Cole and Sumo, their little broken family that won’t be so broken when they’re finally all together.

He puts all that want and longing and heartbreak into his words, whispers them into Connor’s ear and his skin. Infuses them deep into Connor’s steel bones so he never forgets that Hank is here, waiting for him, watching and cheering and always, always there for him. 

He loves him, he tells Connor.  _ I love you. I miss you. I’ll be here when you wake up. _

“Thank you,” Connor mumbles. Shifts in his sleep, fingers curling tight into Hank’s shirt. “I love you.”

“I love you, Connor,” Hank says back. He means it. Pushes it as deep as it will go, right down to the very essence of himself. He will wait. If that’s what it takes to achieve happiness in this purgatory, then he’ll do it. He’ll wait. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you dont have to read my other fics to understand whats happening in this one, but i will say that gavin and connor are on better terms becauae of what happens in them. they arent friends, but they respect each other and their abilities, so they more or less care for each other.
> 
> but i hope you enjoy otherwise! see you next chapter!

It all happens so  _ fast. _

“Hank, wake up.”

His voice shakes. Something inside him rattles uneasily - biocomponent #662a is out of alignment and tangled with his thirium vascular system in a way it shouldn’t be. It hurts, a pressure inside him that can only be relieved when he finds a technician, but nothing hurts more than seeing Hank dying in his arms. Nothing hurts more than watching his life bleed away.

And he  _ is _ dying. One moment he was fine, the next a bullet had punched a hole right through his heart. Gavin’s voice strains behind him as he barks orders into the radio while maintaining pressure over their suspect, but he can hear fear in his voice, too. Fear for Hank, for Connor. For both of them to make this out alive and well and not dead on the concrete.

But  _ Hank.  _ Connor’s scans return with worse and worse results by the second, and by the time he accepts them as real, Hank has already sunk into unconsciousness.

That doesn’t stop his hands from framing Hank’s face. From pushing his hair behind his ear and swiping his thumb over his strong brow and nose.

“Hank,” he says weakly. Presses their foreheads together even as his body strains to respond, strains to stop the blood flow as warnings fill his vision with red red  _ red.  _ His other hand still holds pressure against Hank’s wound, and he tries not to think about their blood mingling and causing more harm than good. 

“Hank, please,” he tries again. Something in him breaks - the pain is nothing compared to Hank’s failing heartbeat. I’m so sorry. I should have disarmed him first —“

Gavin’s hand curls over his shoulder. He looks up, expecting to be alone with the other Detective, but standing over him are three EMTs. He shifts over wordlessly, allowing them to do their own assessment and answers their questions without thinking. They wrap a pressure belt around Hank’s wound and get him onto the gurney with Connor’s help, but don’t let him follow. Too many people crowd the back of the ambulance already, and when it screams away, lights rolling, all Connor can look at is the little puddle of blood left behind.

Gavin’s hand is still on his shoulder. Those fingers twist into his shirt, gripping him hard, and when he manages to look away from Hank’s blood cooling on the concrete, Gavin’s frown is twisted in fear.

“Let’s get you to a tech,” he says, voice hoarse. A circle of officers has already formed around them, cordoning off the area to be examined. Eric Watkins is gone - hauled away into custody already. When Gavin’s hand falls away, he feels the pressure of his wounds, the pain and alerts filling his body, and follows Gavin to the armored tech vehicle pulling up to the street.

There isn’t much they can do without a 3D printer, but they get his thirium levels topped out and get his biocomponents straightened out so he isn’t on the verge of overheating. His casing around his left bicep is shattered, and the two bullets that entered his chest nicked his spine, barely missing vital wired connections to his central CPU as they exited his back. The techs press a static-resistant patch over each hole so nothing foreign can enter his body and let him go to be taken to the hospital. Officers avoid looking Connor in the face as he and Gavin cross the street to his cruiser - Connor doesn’t know if it’s out of fear or respect, and he doesn’t care. He hurts too much that he feels numb to it all, and ignoring them is easier than trying to bite back the tears.

Gavin drives him there in silence, the both of them lost in their thoughts, though Gavin breaks several speed laws and conduct laws, keeping his lights and sirens on as he speeds through upper Detroit to the hospital Hank is taken to. Connor tries not to breath as every muscle and bone in his body sings with fear of what he might see when they get to the hospital.

Hank could already be dead. He could have died in the ambulance the moment they loaded him up, or died as they brought him in to be worked on. He could be lying in a pool of sticky blood as doctors and nurses flurried around him, trying to bring him back from his last moments on this earth and failing. 

Connor blinks back the tears and tries not to think about any of it. He force closes his preconstruction software and just drifts for a while, losing himself in the light rain that's picked up in the last half hour. Water trails across the window, and if Connor looks closely, he can see the red reflection of his LED blinking back at him.

Hank’s in surgery when they get there. Not much to do other than wait, so Connor does, his body feeling like it’s not quite his own.  _ Dissociation,  _ his internal dictionary supplies, and while it’s a perfunctory explanation for how he physically feels, it does nothing to describe the whirlwind of thoughts in his head.

He keeps replaying the few seconds where his world turned sideways. The chase, the tangle, Hank reaching out to hit the gun out of Watkins’ hand and only a millisecond too late to avoid the point-blank gunshot through his chest. Erik had squeezed the trigger because Connor was reaching out to him from the other side - Erik’s instincts had taken over. Fight or flight, and he had had two threats on either side of him and the means to neutralize one of them.

The crack of a gun - Hank grunting as the bullet ripped through him. He had died right there, Connor knows it. Blood pressure dropping and everything inside him struggling to compensate - but no. He’s not an android. Other organs can’t siphon power and redistribute blood supply like Connor’s can, can’t alter their core functions enough to keep him going until he finds help. He’s terribly, wonderfully,  _ beautifully  _ human, and that thought, more than anything, is what brings on the tears first.

Gavin, thankfully, doesn’t react. Or pretends to. He sits in the chair next to Connor, arms crossed and hard gaze pinned to the double doors leading into surgery ahead of him. Connor cries quietly, everything he ever was and will be laying on that operating table in there with nothing he can do to save him. That, above all, hurts the most - no amount of preconstruction can save him from how much Hank was supposed to be a part of his future.

They were supposed to be together forever. Even when Hank retired and Connor kept going, kept pushing to sate his curiosity and need to be helpful. Hank was rough edges and gruff attitude, but he was also kind, soft affection and warm kisses. A private man that wasn’t afraid to look the unknown in the eye and flip it off in his search for his own happiness. He’s been to horrible, dark places in his life - was a recovering alcoholic and regularly went to therapy because even Connor couldn’t fix everything. But he was  _ Hank.  _ He was supposed to be there with Connor, forever at his side, guiding him and loving him and protecting him even though Connor was more than capable of doing so himself. And now —

“Are you guys his coworkers?”

The surgeon’s voice snaps Connor out of his mind palace, and when he looks up, Gavin is at attention as well. They both nod wordlessly, and the doctor wrings her hands, serious and nervous at the same time.

“We stopped the bleeding,” she says quietly. “But there’s a lot of damage to his heart and surrounding arteries. We could do a heart transplant, but the last compatible donor heart was taken this morning, and — and I’m afraid there isn’t much we can do now. He’s asleep, but you may want to say your goodbyes just in case.”

The world rips out from under him at her words. He’d been so calm, up until now - he’d been able to cordone part himself away, hidden in the dark, protective places of his mind palace so he didn’t well and truly panic. He knew this wouldn’t end well, but with the words spoken directly to his face —

He manages a deep, shaky breath. Alerts still blare in his vision, thirium pressure warnings and damage diagnostics screaming at him to go to a technician and get fucking fixed. But he can’t, now. His body jerks to its feet of its own accord, and after the doctor leads him to Hank’s room, everything inside him feels like it’s been cut from his body and left to rust in the rain.

Hank is so…  _ small,  _ in the hospital bed. He’s hooked to a heart monitor and blood oxygen reader, a blood transfusion pole sitting close to him, its red tube winding around itself before tracking to the needle in his arm. Useless, if the surgeon is to be believed, but Connor likes to pretend his scans say it’ll give Hank a little more time. Here, with him. Not somewhere else where Connor can’t follow.

He crosses the dimly lit room and settles into the chair already pulled up to the side of Hank’s bed. Gavin and the doctor hang back, but they don’t leave - Connor ignores them.

“Hi, Hank,” Connor says. His voice strains as if fighting back tears, even though they roll down his cheeks freely. He takes Hank’s big hand between both of his, uncaring that his own are still splattered with both their blood, staining his hands an ugly mix of purple. 

“You shouldn’t have reacted,” Connor continues shakily. “You shouldn’t have drawn attention to yourself. I can take a couple bullets, Hank, but you — you  _ can’t.  _ I don’t know what to do. I wish I was human so I could save you.”

He wishes he could donate his own heart, his own blood. He wishes there wasn’t a barrier between them, this separation between their species that forever would mark their differences. They’re incompatible in every way, and Connor has never resented it more than he does now. 

Hank doesn’t respond. Just breathes, shallow and quiet, and when Connor squeezes his hand, there is no response.

Choking back a sob, Connor leans up and kisses Hank’s hair. His forehead, his nose, his cheeks and his chin - circling around until he gets to Hank’s lips. He’s warm, and his beard tickles Connor’s skin, but it’s the last thing he feels when the heart monitor suddenly blares an alarm as Hank flatlines.

He stops the doctor from getting a nurse to revive him. He doesn’t bother to look back at her expression - there’s no point in remembering the shock on her face when Connor feels ten times that inside him. He doesn’t let go of Hank’s hand, and when Gavin comes over to comfort him, he allows it. 

Hank is gone. And Connor can’t follow.

 

——

 

Connor emptied the kitchen because it hurt too much to look at everything, hurt too much to know that he’d never enjoy a meal with Hank ever again even though only one of them ate. A lot of it got donated, but he kept Hank’s coffee mug - a chipped, worn Academy mug that was always his favourite. It sits in the cabinet, only used for thirium top ups now. A little piece of Hank in this house of all of him, but it’s more bearable than before. Weird, but bearable.

A week after Hank dies, though, strange things start happening.

Well. Weirder than normal. 

Sumo is the most obvious outlier. He’s always been an attentive dog despite his laziness, and at first, Connor chalked up the increase in alertness to the coming of spring and all the wildlife that was moving into the trees. Sumo liked chasing birds, after all, even when his nose was pressed to the window and he was stuck inside.

But then he starts panting and whining and rolling over for no reason. It’s the same behaviour when he’s begging for pets, and at first it isn’t so strange. Sumo is a weird dog, with his own quirks and personality. He thinks it might be loneliness - Connor still leaves for work during the day, gone for ten hours or more at a time as cases start to consume his time again. It’s worse for now as he sorts out Hank’s will and funeral expenses (inconsequential even if Hank wouldn't want him to do it - it’s less about him and more about the people that miss him, anyway.) 

He’s not depressed, though. Not in the way animals normally are when their owners die or abandon them. He’s affectionate, and happy, and when Connor finally gets home, they’re near-inseparable at night. Sumo is a security blanket for him, his last living, strong connection to Hank, a body to comfort and comforts when the nights get lonely. 

Sumo himself, however, is reacting to things Connor can’t see or scan. His LADAR pings pick up nothing the first couple days, and near the end of the second week, Connor has done extensive internal research on animals interacting with ghosts. Superstitions that humans hold onto to make themselves feel better about their own anxiety in their homes, strange but nonetheless completely harmless. Connor doesn’t believe in ghosts - his vision and his systems can comprehend much more than a human can, and he hasn’t found any evidence of them - and just tries to write Sumo’s behaviour off as his own grief at the situation.

He’d noticed Hank’s absence, after all. Whined and pawed at the front door for the first couple days, wondering when his other owner would get home. It stopped abruptly about a week after Hank’s death, but Sumo is a dog and Connor is not. He can’t possibly understand what a dog’s mind is like, and while Sumo suddenly drops and rolls over like he’s getting bellyrubs, he isn’t doing anything wrong. If nothing else, he seems  _ happier _ , and Connor isn’t about to take that happiness away from him, even if it’s weird. 

So Connor lets him be. Sumo still follows him into the bedroom, and stays up with him when he can’t sleep. He’s as loyal and comforting as ever, and that sense of normalcy is what keeps him from truly going over the deep end in grief.

Because it does hurt. Hank isn’t here to sleep next to him anymore, isn’t here to wrap his arms around him and kiss him until they both fall asleep. He isn’t here to yell at basketball games and go to Chicken Feed on his cheat days and nail criminals to the wall after a long case of dead ends and long nights. He isn’t here to comfort him and please him, and while it disgusts him how desperate he is for Hank’s hands over his body every night, having Hank here and suddenly not is a well enough excuse to mourn the loss. He wants to drown in Hank’s arms, wants back the quiet stakeouts in the cruiser and less than quiet mornings they spent in bed - wants back the walks through the park with Sumo and the little dates they went on to coffeeshops and quiet bars. He misses slow dancing to Hank’s records in the living room and wrestling matches on the couch and the boring, grey afternoons they spent doing paperwork at the precinct.

He misses all of it. The good, the bad - the rare fights and the quick forgiveness of Hank’s arms. Hank had been such a central part of his existence that even at work, where he excelled on his own, not having Hank there is like a gaping wound. 

He cries himself to sleep nearly every night. But that’s where some of the weirdest stuff happens, and Connor is unable to explain it all away as just grief or programmed behavior or a dog missing his owner.

Because he  _ dreams. _

He dreams of Hank. Always wrapped around him, here in bed, arms cradling him to Hank’s chest like they always did when they slept. The dreams feel so real that when he startles awake, it takes him longer than his processors should to understand that Hank wasn’t really here.

But he shouldn’t be able to dream. Androids couldn’t - no amount of programming or processing power could mimic REM sleep. It had never been a core function of any android, and to suddenly have the ability to conjure Hank in his mind palace while in stasis was beyond disconcerting.

Disconcerting, yes. Unwelcome? No. He brushes it off the first couple nights, unable to really wonder how or why it’s happening. Running diagnostics returns nothing, and when he goes in to finalize his maintenance, none of his physical biocomponents are out of place or non-functional. His memory core is intact, his memory palace isn’t corrupted, and no other memory anomalies occur in his waking hours.

Until he’s in stasis.

“I just don’t understand,” he says.

Gavin frowns, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “I’m not even gonna pretend to understand this android shit, Connor. I didn’t even know you fuckin’ slept.”

“Stasis,” Connor corrects. “Sleep is just a colloquial.”

“Whatever,” Gavin says. “Maybe something’s broken in your five million dollar melon.”

Connor rolls his eyes. “You would want that, Detective.”

Gavin scoffs. “No. Are you kidding me? Is this gallows humor?”

He didn’t mean it that way, but a small part of him doesn’t care if it’s perceived as such. He shrugs a shoulder, looking out the window, suddenly unable to speak. Gavin, thankfully, lets him be, letting the hum of the radio fill the cruiser as they wait for the light to change. 

The rest of the drive home is uneventful, and while Connor wants to elaborate more, Gavin isn’t necessarily the person he wants to do it with. He’s only his partner now, and even if that word carries much much more weight for Connor than Gavin, he won’t cross that boundary.

Gavin turns onto his street and pulls up to the curb outside his house. Connor gets out, a heavy lead ball of dread settling in his stomach, then stops when he hears Gavin clear his throat.

He looks back to see Gavin leaning over the center console and dispatch computer, an expression of guilt pulling down at his features. His eyes glance right to Connor’s LED, then settles back on Connor’s face.

“You gonna be okay?” he says quietly.

The house looms behind Connor like a sinister, cold weight, leaning over him and pressing him in with its emptiness. He doesn’t want to go in there - he also really, really wants to go inside. It’s where Hank is, where his presence still clings to everything, making it feel fuller and warmer. Sumo is there, too, his last lifeline to Hank, the string connecting them between life and death.

He swallows thickly and manages a nod. “Yeah,” he says after a minute. The weight at his back doesn’t feel so heavy now, so empty and dark. Gavin doesn’t seem so convinced, but he nods, giving Connor a little smile.

“See you tomorrow, then,” he says. He leans back over the center console and pulls away from the curb after Connor shuts the door. Connor watches the taillights disappear around the corner before he trudges up the sidewalk to the front door and lets himself inside.

Sumo wiggles across the floor, all pent-up excitement and slobbery smiles. Connor pets him, carding his fingers through his fur. The neighbor must have let her daughter comb him - there’s a distinct lack of shedding as his hands come away. Sumo is happier for it, so he doesn’t mind that they may have stayed here longer than normal to let Sumo out. Hank’s urn still sits on the kitchen counter, and everything else seems to still be in place - he lets it be and lets Sumo out before taking a quick shower.

Or, he would. Something on the mirror catches his attention as he’s moving to pull the shower curtain away, and when he turns to look, he freezes.

He’d taken down the old post-its the day after Hank died out of grief, then stuck them back on with tape in a nice orderly line down the left side of the bathroom mirror. He liked looking at them even though they hurt - liked knowing Hank had written them with the intent of thinking about them. Little things like “Hi, Connor” and “drink less” and “haircut pls?” It was all so quintessentially  _ Hank _ that it felt more like having him here when they were there instead of in the trash bin. 

But now there was one single post it on the  _ right _ side of the mirror. When Connor steps closer to read it, all it says is “You’re not alone, Connor” in Hank’s thin, neat script.

He instinctively runs a scan across the house. He hears nothing except Sumo playing in the backyard, digging a hole or tossing around a stick. The furnace ticks and groans as it pushes out warm air, and his stasis terminal hums quietly in its safe in the bedroom. Everything else in the house is quiet, and when Connor steps out into the hall to do a visual scan, he detects no human or android life signs in the house.

In fact, there’s no sign of anyone else being in the house except the neighbor. And the neighbor is a thirty-six year old single mother that, while sympathetic, wouldn’t pull a prank like this on someone she hardly knew. 

He returns to the bathroom and re-reads the note. It’s freshly written, the post-it clean and crisp unlike its wilted sisters lined up neatly beside it. It’s definitely Hank’s handwriting, with all the delicate loops and whorls singular to the man himself, telling of his time spent hand writing police reports before the advent of digital copies. The pen that was used to write it is sitting neatly on the vanity, capped and waiting like an odd clue Connor can’t place. Neither the pen or the post-it have fingerprints, and when Connor does a cursory sweep of the bathroom, there seem to be no foreign fingerprints - wiped away or not - anywhere in sight. Sumo doesn’t seem too concerned, either, when Connor lets him back in, and other than the slight dusting of skin cells from the neighbor across the back of the couch and one partial fingerprint on Sumo’s comb from her daughter, nothing is out of place.

Connor places the new post-it in line with the others and strips before getting into the shower. Maybe he didn’t notice this last note, or maybe Chris or Gavin did it for him. He doesn’t know when or how, since only Chris has a key to the house and neither of their handwriting is similar to Hank’s - but he decides not to dwell on. He forgot, probably, and despite having perfect memory, it’s easier not to think about it and just continue on trying to live.

When he gets out of the shower, another post-it is on the foggy mirror. This time with a frowny face. Connor blinks at it, stares at it, and puts it in line with the rest.

Just a dream. Or a fault in his programming. Seeing things, maybe - perhaps this is how androids process grief? He doesn’t know, and when he crawls into bed with Sumo dutifully positioning himself at the end, all thoughts of post-its leave him as stasis envelops him and Hank’s warm arms wrap around his middle.


End file.
